Rara Avis (The Last Door)
by CassandraVeil
Summary: This is a short story for the game "The Last Door". It simply details Devitt and Wakefield's first meeting, and is a brief look at their friendship.
1. Chapter 1

**Amicus Verus est Rara Avis**

 **A True Friend is a Rare Bird**

1

Dr. John Wakefield was seized by an inexplicably ominous mood the morning of his drive out to Sussex. The day was bleary and gray, its pallor unrelieved even when London's smoky closeness was far behind. The open countryside trembled beneath a roll of heavy gray clouds, like so many ghostly bladders, awaiting the inevitable downpour. John tried to distract himself from the dreary scenery with the book he had brought along, but his eyes kept wandering to the train's windows.

With a sigh, John shut the book and put it aside. He removed his journal from his jacket's inner pocket. A bit chagrined by his mood, he wrote,

" _A restlessness has settled upon my soul this morning. I have only had this feeling a few times before, and it has never failed to predict the most difficult sort of patient. The last time that I had this feeling, my intended patient actually took my fountain pen from my hand and attempted to harm me with it!_

" _Looking back upon that unpleasant memory, I cannot fathom why this foreboding would be with me now. This man that I have been called out to see is merely the witness of a tragedy, not the perpetrator of one. As far as I know, he is not dangerous at all. Why such anxiety over meeting him, then? Is it merely the day preying on my better judgment? It must be … and yet …_

" _Perhaps it was the look on the face of the man that drove out to request my assistance. That police inspector who rung my doorbell at such an unholy time of morning some hours ago. The look on his face chilled me, and I did not like the way he refused to comment on the death that my soon-to-be-patient uncovered. It was strange, come to think of it, that the man would have ridden all the way out from Sussex to London simply to request help for a witness. I suppose he is eager for details of the discovery of the body, though one would expect that sort of desperation more in regards to a murder than a suicide._

" _Why does it all feel like some sort of riddle? Why is this morning so cold?"_

* * *

Try as he might, John could not shake his dark mood. He arrived at the hospital just as the first drops of rain began to patter down. Inside, a rather nervous young police officer greeted him in the waiting area. After a brief introduction, the man led Dr. Wakefield to see his intended patient.

"Are you all right?" John asked in concern. "You don't look very well, if you don't mind my saying."

"Oh, tired is all, sir," the youth said. "Inspector West told me to wait here for you, so I've been here since early."

"I see," John said, though he did not entirely believe the man. "What can you tell me about my patient, the Mr.-?"

"Devitt, sir, Jeremiah Devitt, and a devil of a time we had getting that out of him," the copper said. He shuddered. "Not that I blame the poor bas—I mean, the poor man, of course. After what he saw, who could think straight, let alone speak clearly?"

"Inspector West alluded to some particularly disturbing misfortune," John said. Hoping for details, he further inquired, "Might you know anything about it? It would greatly help to know what sort of trauma I am dealing with."

The policeman, Jennings was his name, was silent for so long that John did not expect an answer. Then, Jennings stopped short in the middle of the hallway, and the words all came tumbling out in a rush.

"Oh, God, it was awful!" he blurted. He rubbed his face with a hand. "Begging your pardon, sir, but it was the most terrible thing I ever seen. I ain't never seen a suicide before, that was bad enough, but the birds, Christ! Excuse me for that, sir, but those _birds_!"

John gave the man a moment to collect himself, shocked by the mist of sweat that beaded upon Jennings' forehead. The youth took a deep breath, gave his head a shake, and continued walking. John followed.

"Birds?"

"I didn't think nothin' of them at first, sir," Jennings said grimly. "It was a bit odd, that was all I thought, to see so many of them outside that house. It was a murder upon a murder of crows, it was. They was all over, the trees, the ground, everywhere, just sitting and watching, like. But they was only birds, I thought—then. After seeing the body and what your man, Devitt, said, though … I swear, when I came out of that house, those birds looked like the wings of Lucifer himself."

"But why? I don't understand."

"The man we found hanging upstairs in the attic, Anthony Beechworth, was in pieces," Jennings explained with another shudder. "Blood everywhere, the stink—oh! When Devitt came to the police station, he was wild, raving about birds eating someone, eating their eyes, just screaming and screaming about birds. We thought he was mad with grief is all, but when we saw 'is friend, we understood. The birds had burst through the window for the body, right? They'd … Well, they had … "

Jennings drew a very deep breath and let it out slowly.

"The crows had stripped almost all the flesh off, so we found the body hangin' there in tatters," Jennings said. "Skin stripped and hanging like rags, the muscles snipped and shredded, dead veins bulging like dead worms—and the eyes! They had taken the eyes. Took most of the face, too, so we saw teeth through a hole in 'is cheek, like he was smilin' somewhere deep inside at the whole mess. It was terrible."

John opened his mouth to speak, but he had no response for this grisly tale. The two men walked the rest of the way to Devitt's room in utter silence. At each window, they could hear the incessant drumming of the rain.

"Well, here we are, sir," Jennings said, stopping outside a door. He managed a polite smile, opening the door. "The doctors gave him something for his nerves, though, so he might not be fully himself. He was hysterical, you see."

"I understand." John extended a hand. "Thank you, my good man."

"Right, welcome, and, er, good luck, Dr. Wakefield."

The ward for those more mentally than physically troubled was small, given that this was a medical hospital. A woman lay groaning in the bed closest to the door. John could see some men in beds, and he realized that he did not know what Jeremiah Devitt looked like. He was just about to return to the hallway to ask Jennings about it, when a movement at the far end of the ward caught his eye. He turned back, and his eyes fell upon a man in the last bed of the room, just next to the window. He walked further down the ward, craning his neck to see the solitary figure.

The end of the long room was empty, save for this one man. He had lifted his hand to touch the cold glass of the window, and now his fingers shrunk away in a wince. He turned his head back and forth on the pillow, whimpering softly and shutting his eyes tightly.

All at once, John knew that this must be Jeremiah Devitt. No one else in the ward bore such a profound expression of terror. His pleasantly even features were twisted into a grimace, his skin was deathly pale and drenched with the acrid sweat only fear can set flowing. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and they were glossy and rimmed with red from crying. His hair was very red, the brighter shade that looked orange, and it was plastered to his face messily. His lips moved, muttering something repeatedly. When he got close, John could make out the words: "The birds," Devitt whispered, "the birds, the birds, the birds."

"Mr. Devitt?" John ventured. "It's me. Dr. Wakefield."

John wondered, why he had said that, 'it's me'? Devitt was not expecting him, of course. It was an odd thing to say to a stranger. Devitt's breathing did begin to slow, however. He looked terribly warm, almost fevered, and John reached over the bed to open the window.

All at once, Devitt's hand shot out and grabbed John's arm. John's heart skipped a beat. Wild, haunted eyes flew open and bore into his own.

"Don't!" Devitt cried. "Don't let them in! Don't let the birds in!"

"Yes, yes, I understand," John said gently. He delicately pried Devitt's hands off of his arm and then drew the drapes over the window. "There we are. Is that better, Mr. Devitt?"

Devitt blinked, and then sank back into the pillows. His breathing finally fell into a normal pace. John sat down in the chair beside the bed, trying to get a psychological image of his new patient. He could not tell very much about Devitt, admittedly; all he could see was the fear.

"Mr. Devitt, my name is John Wakefield," he tried again. "I am a psychiatrist from London. You live in London, do you not?"

Devitt nodded weakly, though his eyes darted back to the curtain-covered window. His pale fingers picked at the worn white bed linens. John poured him a glass of water from the pitcher on the nearby table and handed it to him. To his relief, Devitt drank.

"Mr. Devitt, I must ask you some questions to determine whether or not you are capable of returning to London just yet," John said, getting to the matter at hand. "Do you understand me?"

Devitt set the glass on the table and met John's eyes. He still seemed highly nervous, but there was lucidity in his eyes now. He nodded.

"Good," John said. "Now. Do you know who you are and where you are?"

Devitt repeated his name and the name of the hospital.

"Do you remember your home address?"

Devitt drew a breath, calming more. He told John his address in London. They went through more basic information, such as Devitt's date of birth, the names of his parents (there was some reluctance to name his father, John noted), and finally the name of the friend that he had lost.

"Anthony," he murmured, staring at his hands. "Anthony Beechworth, and his wife, Anna. I did not know her, but … but in a way, I lost them both. I feel that I could have known them both as friends, if I had only … come sooner … "

"You must not blame yourself, Mr. Devitt."

"But I do, Dr. Wakefield," Devitt said softly. He turned his face to the curtains. "I do."

John gave the man a moment, seeing that he was deeply anguished. John was a professional man, one who had always prided himself on his ability to put a patient's care above his own interests and feelings. Yet as he watched the subtle nuances of Devitt's pain ripple across his face as waves do over water, he felt a stirring in his heart. He wanted to help this man, wanted it with a desire that almost breached his professionalism.

"Do you believe that you could withstand the journey back to London?" John asked. "You seem competent enough to at least return to your home, in my opinion."

"Oh, yes, I would like to return home," Devitt said earnestly. His stomach growled, and he blushed slightly, returning his gaze to his hands. "Well, I would, only … I am starving, really. I haven't been able to eat a bite since … since … "

"Do not worry, we will get you a meal," John said, too quickly. What was he thinking? He had never been so doting with a patient before. Well, the offer was made, and Devitt was eyeing him hopefully. John cleared his throat. "Let me send for a nurse, so that you might dress. We shall find you a meal in town, and then we shall ride back to London together."

Devitt nodded, still introspective. John stood and turned to leave.

"Dr. Wakefield?"

John turned around to find Devitt's eyes tentatively raising to his own. There was a shyness beneath the sorrow, John noted, a look of the boy the man had never completely outgrown. John found himself wondering about Devitt's parents, as he had seen this kind of attitude predominantly in men whom had never bonded well with their fathers or mothers.

"Thank you," Devitt said softly.

"You are welcome, Jeremiah," John said, allowing himself the informal usage of the man's given name. He paused awkwardly, unused to such familiarity and the emotions that had caused it. "Well, let's get you sorted, shall we?"

* * *

Not very long after, Jeremiah Devitt and John Wakefield sat in a very adequate restaurant together. John was famished after the ride out, having skipped breakfast, and Jeremiah really had not eaten since discovering his friend's body the previous day. For a time, they concentrated solely on the meal, with only common decorum keeping them from wolfing it down. Given that Jeremiah knew a wealthy man such as Anthony Beechworth, John had expected him to be well-bred, and he could tell by his table manners that this was indeed the case. Devitt recovered nothing of the natural confidence a man of his class should have, however, and John suspected that his nerves had never been particularly robust.

 _He is a thoughtful, introspective man, a bit sensitive,_ John observed. _If what Officer Jennings told me was true, then what he witnessed would have been enough to shatter even the stoutest and most rational, or the simplest and most unimaginative man's nerves. What must it have done to an intelligently pensive man such as Devitt?_

For his part, Jeremiah was only just beginning to recover his sense of self. The experiences in the Beechworth manor had unhinged him, and the final ghastly display had left him insensible. If Jeremiah was perfectly honest with himself, the mindless interlude at the hospital had been almost pleasant: a reprieve from thought, emotion, and all the suffering that accompanied those matters of the mind and heart. Now that he could no longer bask in the thoughtless void, at least his body had overtaken him, the pure, animal instinct to consume in order to survive. He knew that when his needs were satisfied, the shock worn off, the sedatives cleared from his body, the pain would come. It would come, he would be helpless to it, and in the back of his mind, dread was building like the storm that had accumulated outside.

"You are from London, Dr. Wakefield?"

As the eating slowed to allow digestion a grace period, the silence ended. John was relieved. The incessant drumming of the rain had been grating on his nerves, for some reason.

"Why would you ride all the way out here?" Devitt inquired. "For a stranger, I mean?"

"Inspector West rode to London to ask for my assistance," John replied. "I am afraid that I was not entirely honest with you at the hospital. Before you can return to London, you must make a statement detailing all that you saw at Beechworth Manor."

"I-I see." Devitt stared at his plate, pushing food around with his fork. He inhaled through his nose and nodded. "Yes, yes, I can do that. I am … much restored now, doctor."

"I am glad to hear it."

"That is not all, is it?"

"Well, no." John hesitated. "Mr. Devitt, might I be frank with you?"

"Please."

"Recovering from a shock such as you have endured is not a simple process," John said. "While you do seem quite capable of returning home, I would highly recommend that you take care with your recovery. I am a psychiatrist, and I would like to offer my services to you during this difficult time."

"Do you think me mad, doctor?"

"No, no, of course not," John assured him. "No. Were you mad, I would have had you taken from the hospital to an asylum, frankly. However, there is much to be gained from exploring the mind. Even for those who believe themselves to be untroubled, comprehension of the psychological needs that guide the heart can be of much benefit. Given your recent trauma, I believe that such a practice is, in your case, imperative, if I may be so bold."

Devitt mulled this over. Their dishes were cleared away. Outside, the rain pounded the restaurant's many windows. They had sat a good distance from the windows, as Devitt had winced passing them, but the rain was now too heavy to be ignored.

"You want me to be your patient?" Devitt asked. He shifted in his seat, frowning. "I've never thought much of psychiatric care. What would that entail?"

"Nothing much more than talking, Mr. Devitt," John said. "My job is to help you understand yourself, your pain and its causes, your history and the way it has shaped your present. I would never submit you to anything that you would be uncomfortable with."

"I … I appreciate your offer to help, I really do," Devitt said. "I … I must think about this. You do understand?"

"Of course," John said. "Yes, you must do whatever you feel is best for yourself. I understand. You would not mind my company for the day, though? While you make your statement to the police, and perhaps ride back to London?"

"No," Devitt said. "No, Dr. Wakefield, I would welcome your company today. You are very kind."

"Think nothing of it, Mr. Devitt."


	2. Chapter 2

2

"Some days ago, I received a letter from a boyhood acquaintance of mine, the contents of which greatly troubled me." Jeremiah reached into his coat pocket and removed a tattered and torn document. He handed it to Detective Inspector West. "As you can see, Anthony Beechworth must not have been of sound mind when he wrote it. Given the timing of my having received it, Anthony must have written this a day or less before he … ended his life."

West scrutinized the letter, and then held it for Dr. Wakefield to see. The bottom-most portion of the letter was burned away, erasing the signature and whatever might have been written before or after it. The last line of the contents read, _'I only hope you can forgive me'_.

"The letter caught when I dropped the lamp," Devitt explained. He added in barely a whisper, "When the birds came."

"There was a fair amount of ash found there," West said. "Was this the only page of Mr. Beechworth's letter?"

"It was."

"And no other document was burned?"

"No," Devitt said, after the slightest hesitation. "Well, the envelope containing the letter went up. I suppose that is where the ash came from."

"I see."

Jeremiah's heart was racing as he lied to Inspector West. In fact, Anthony Beechworth had left him a letter in his jacket pocket, to be found upon his death. It gave Jeremiah very specific instructions, the last of which being to burn the letter. Despite the shaking of his hands and the torment of his soul, Jeremiah had burned the second letter, and the piece of the first letter that contained the phrase, ' _Videte ne quis sciat_ '.

John picked up on the fact that Devitt was lying, but he said nothing. Nothing good would come of raising Inspector West's suspicions against poor Devitt. If any pertinent information concerning the Beechworth tragedy was being withheld, John was certain that Devitt would only divulge it if John gained his trust.

"Do you have any notion why Mr. Beechworth would have contacted you before he died, Mr. Devitt?" Inspector West inquired. "Were you very close?"

"No. That is, we had not been close for many years," Devitt replied. "Anthony and I were good friends during our brief attendance of a boarding school in Scotland. After the school closed, we lost track of one another. We had not spoken or otherwise corresponded since. I cannot fathom what thoughts led Anthony to write me, other than a sort of desperation, perhaps a desperation for a simpler time of life."

"I see," Inspector West said, though he did not sound satisfied. "So, you received a letter from an old friend that disturbed you. Why not contact the police?"

"I had no idea that Anthony was so deeply troubled," Devitt explained. "I did not think it proper to appear on his doorstep with the authorities when he begged only for my help. I thought that I _could_ help him."

"All right," Inspector West allowed. "Now, tell me exactly what transpired upon your arrival at the Beechworth Manor, please, Mr. Devitt."

Jeremiah licked his lips, which had gone dry. How could he describe the bizarre nightmare of Beechworth Manor? Finding the place so broodingly empty, with only the watchful crows squawking life into the silence? The senseless events that had occurred, the evil he felt lurking behind every wall, and the mad riddles he had to solve to navigate the locked rooms? How could he even begin to tell of that strange house without sounding like a complete madman?

John, who had been standing, now took the chair beside Devitt's. He leaned forward on its seat a bit, towards Devitt. He glanced at Inspector West, and the man nodded his permission for him to join the conversation.

"Take your time, Mr. Devitt," John said. "Take a deep breath and close your eyes a moment. Yes, good. Simply take a moment to think, even if the recollections are painful. You will find that when you open your eyes, speaking will be easier than keeping that pain inside."

Inspector West was giving John a dubious look, but John ignored it. Devitt kept his eyes shut obediently, and the initial impatience on his face soon faded. He frowned very deeply, his breathing becoming ragged and shallow. John leaned closer, studying Devitt's face. Surely enough, he could see his face subtly expressing emotions caused by memories. It was not a full hypnotic trance, John dared not attempt to put him in one without explicit permission, but John was an expert at utilizing the power of suggestion.

When Devitt opened his eyes, he was shaken, but resolved.

"When I arrived at the Beechworth Manor, no one answered my knocks upon the door," Devitt said. "The front door was open, and so I entered the home. I called, but no one answered me. There was a note in the foyer from the servants describing their reasons for departing. The house was silent as a grave, and obviously had been in disuse for some time. There were no lights, and I had to hunt around for a lamp. The house was in very strange condition, with a door boarded up and other doors locked by keys that had been hidden. I spent hours there, searching for my friend. It was a … a singular feeling, as if I had been locked inside some labyrinthine crypt."

"Labyrinthine?" Inspector West repeated doubtfully.

"Yes," Devitt insisted. "It was only a home, I know, but everything was laid out according to some mad logic. As I said, it took hours to find my way to Anthony, during which time I discovered the body of his wife, Anna, who had been locked away and left to die of her malady."

"Yes, we found Anna, and the sad final words the woman wrote," Inspector West said. For the first time, the hardened veteran's face showed sympathy, even sorrow. He paused. "And when you found your friend, Mr. Devitt?"

"I was … horrified," Devitt said with a shudder. "I could not fathom why he would do such a thing— _how_ he could do such a thing. I removed the letter-"

"The letter that Anthony sent you?"

"Yes," Devitt said slowly. "Yes, of course, that letter. I took it out and read it, trying to see if he had hinted at such a plan in it. Then those wretched birds broke through the window and … and did what they did. I was shocked, and I dropped the lantern and the letter. The letter and the envelope caught. I saved the letter, and the envelope burned. Stamping out the fire brought me to my senses somewhat, and the birds had gone by the time the smoke cleared. I ran from the house. I don't remember much after that."

"The townspeople here say that you arrived on foot," Inspector West said. "You must have run for miles."

"Yes, my legs are still very sore, and my feet are blistered," Devitt murmured, staring down at his shoes. "I felt nothing during the run. I only needed to be away from that place."

There was a silence as Devitt and West reflected upon whatever they had seen at the Beechworth's home. John could not help being grateful to have never set foot in the place.

"Well, I suppose we are almost finished here," Inspector West said, clearing his throat. "One last thing, Mr. Devitt. Did you not find anything else? Not a letter of Mr. Beechworth's? Not anything pertaining to why he might have done such a thing? There was evidence found of a growing madness in the man, but he left no clear explanation for his actions, not a single note."

"No," Jeremiah lied quietly. "There was nothing else."

Inspector West drummed his fingers on his desk, staring hard at Devitt. There was no possible way of repeating the question without sounding accusatory, however, so he let the matter drop. He stood and extended a hand to Devitt, telling him that would be all. Devitt stood and shook West's hand. West then shook John's hand, and they all bid one another good day.

Outside the police station, Devitt's tight hold on his nerves broke. He bent a bit, hands on his legs to keep himself upright, and panted. The recollections had been too much, and he no longer had insensibility nor physical discomfort to distract him from them.

"Oh God," he breathed. "Oh God, oh God, oh, Anthony … "

John instinctively put a hand on Devitt's shoulder, more to keep him on his feet should he collapse than to offer comfort. The rain sloshed the city mercilessly, obscuring John's vision as it dripped down from the brim of his hat. Devitt's hat nearly fell off when he bowed his head, forcing him to straighten up with a jerk. He looked at John, his face more wearied than any young man's should be.

"Do you wish to rest before the ride back to London?" John asked. "Perhaps a hotel-"

"No," Devitt said forcefully. "No, I cannot stay here. I … I only want to leave Sussex. I only wish to return home."

"All right," John said. "That can be arranged."

* * *

They took a carriage to the nearest train station. Devitt stared out the window as Sussex rolled its green hills past them, all suffused with the blur of rain. His eyes were very faraway.

"Do you think it would help?" Jeremiah suddenly asked.

John looked up from his book. "Do I think what would help?"

"Psychotherapy?"

"I believe very much in the benefits of it," John replied. "There is much that you are keeping to yourself, is there not, Mr. Devitt? Things that you did not speak of to the police?"

Devitt's eyes widened and he swallowed.

"Do not be alarmed," John said quickly. "My profession is dependent upon respecting my patients' right to privacy. You may not be a patient of mine yet, but still, I am discreet with sensitive secrets."

"Thank you," Devitt said. "I … Yes, there … Well, there are things that I thought best to keep to myself. Strange things, and … personal things."

"Would you care to discuss any of these things?"

"No, I … I cannot speak of them just yet."

"I understand."

The carriage stopped and they got out at the train station. It was still raining heavily, so they hurried towards the cover of the waiting platform. Jeremiah suddenly noticed a line of crows perched upon a nearby fence, and the sight threw him so off balance that he tripped over his own feet. He would have fallen face-down in the muddy puddles if John had not caught him in both arms. To John's surprise, Devitt was shaking violently.

"They're only birds," John said gently. "They're only measly crows, Mr. Devitt. They cannot harm you."

Devitt leaned heavily on John, who guided him past the sight of the blackly glaring crows. They sat on a bench on the waiting platform. Devitt was very pale again, and he stayed closer than was polite to John. John did not mind, particularly, but he was very concerned about Devitt. Had he removed him from the hospital too soon? Devitt was not hysterical, but he seemed just one step above a fit.

The train arrived soon and they boarded. Devitt was taciturn again as the train pulled out of the station, so John returned to his book. When he looked up after some minutes, he saw that Devitt had fallen into a frowning doze.

"They're watching," Devitt murmured in his sleep after a while. He writhed in his seat. "They … see … us … all of us, we never should have called them … The birds … Anthony, I'm sorry … "

Devitt came to with wide, startled eyes. He sat up on his seat, looking around wildly. Recognition came, and he settled back down, staring out the window.

"Dr. Wakefield," Jeremiah said at length, "I think that I will employ your services."

John shut his book and looked at him.

"Just now, I dreamed of something, and it is something that I know I have dreamed before," Jeremiah went on. "It has to do with Anthony, with that school, with all of us."

 _Us?_ John wondered. He refrained from comment, lapsing into the listening attentiveness of his profession.

"I remember very little of my childhood," Devitt said. "I feel that many answers lie there, in the past, perhaps even an answer to why my friend took his own life. Since receiving Anthony's letter, I have been trying to recall our time together, to no avail. Is that normal, Dr. Wakefield?"

"It is not uncommon," John said. "However, in many cases when memory loss occurs without physical trauma being to blame, it is due to a subconscious _willingness to forget_."

"But I want to remember."

"You may believe that on the surface, but a part of you may still be reluctant to remember," John explained. "This might be due to the fact that those memories are intertwined with an unpleasant one. Simply, something bad might have happened to you during that time, hence your subconscious reluctance to remember."

"I see," Devitt said. He thought this over for a minute. "Dr. Wakefield, do you think that you will be able to help me recover those memories? I feel that they are vital."

"I have had some success in similar cases," John said. "Often, merely discussing the time in question can bring memories to the surface, when the patient least expects it: a mention of a certain detail alone can spark a memory to return. If the memories prove to be more stubborn, I may subject you, with your permission of course, to hypnosis."

"Well, if you think that you can retrieve my memories, then I welcome your assistance," Devitt said. "I had put that time so thoroughly out of my mind that I didn't even notice as the memories slipped away. I need to remember that time, doctor, no matter what the consequences."

"I promise, I will do everything in my power to help you, Mr. Devitt."


	3. Chapter 3

3

 _'I will do everything in my power'_

 _I promised him that, while we rattled along the train tracks beneath the pounding of the rain. I tried my best, but it was not enough. In the end, I could not save him. In the end, I could not sift the memories from the debris cluttering my patient's tortured mind. I failed Jeremiah Devitt, and thus he felt that he had to return to that blasted school in Scotland to remember his past. I failed him, and so he returned to that accursed place, and now he is lost … far beyond my help …_

John Wakefield was deeply distraught over the disappearance of his patient, Jeremiah Devitt. Months had passed, and he had not had a peaceful night's sleep since. He could not quite put his finger on why he was so personally involved in Devitt's case. Patients had left his care before, and some had disappeared, given up to their illnesses, sometimes given up to suicide or incarceration. The harsh reality of losing patients had always depressed John somewhat, but never before had he taken it upon himself to set out and risk everything to save one before.

Yet Jeremiah Devitt was different. Ever since John had first met him in that old hospital, so pale and haunted, he had ached with sympathy for the man. He had sensed then, and knew definitively now, that Devitt was tormented by something beyond mental illness, perhaps even something beyond human comprehension. There was an evil seeking out Devitt. Perhaps Jeremiah even knew it himself, and that was why he had always had the stricken desperation of a hunted hare.

 _I cannot let_ it _have him,_ John thought half-consciously. He was on another train, and dozing against the window. Rain did not pound the train cars now, but snow drifted aimlessly around them. He wished that Devitt were sitting in the seat opposite him, as he had the day they had met in rainy October. He wished Devitt were there with him, safe from the horrors that threatened to swallow him up …

"I must speak to you, mein Freund."

John shook himself awake. Johan Kaufmann, his old colleague and good friend, had the opposite seat. He was sitting forward, his wise face lined with concern. He opened his mouth to speak and was interrupted by a cough. He had coughed earlier, and insisted that he was fine, but John did not like the sound of it.

"You have said that you will do anything to find Mr. Devitt?"

"Yes," John said. "We spoke of this earlier already. My mind is fixed."

"I may not have spoken as explicitly as the situation demands earlier," Kaufmann said. "For this search for Devitt of yours may not end ideally, and along the way you are sure to see and experience … things that will scar you, forever."

The creeping ominous sensation that John was now accustomed to chilled his blood. He sat up straight, fully awake now, and met Kaufmann's unfathomable, wise eyes. Save for the metallic clacking of the train, it was impossibly quiet.

"I made a promise to Devitt," John said. "I intend to keep it."

"Why?"

"Why?" John echoed, blinking in surprise. "Well, I gave my word, Johan. I promised to help Devitt."

"As a psychiatrist, you must always promise your patient your help," Kaufmann pointed out. "You did do your best with Mr. Devitt. He chose to seek his own form of help. He chose to go to that school. He might have even chosen to disappear, for reasons of his own."

"Or he might be in danger, held against his will … or worse."

"My point is, that you have done your professional duty," Kaufmann said. "You _have_ done everything in your power to help Devitt. This undertaking of yours—of ours—is beyond what you promised Devitt. You are taking something into your hands that you are in no way obliged to. So, I ask you, why do this? Is it your professional responsibility, or is it something else?"

John did his best to disguise the start the question gave him, but had to turn his face to the window. They were riding out to visit an old friend and mentor of Kaufmann's that he believed could offer insight into the unusual situation, one Adam Wright. John was as determined as ever to find Devitt, but he was still raw from a harrowing experience chasing the whereabouts and activities of one of Devitt's old friends, Alexandre Du Pre, all across London.

During that chase, John had had the misfortune to need to visit an opium den. The mere smoke had overwhelmed him, and he had passed out. This would have been nothing more than a mild embarrassment, if he had not been subjected to a fantastic vision thereafter. The more ludicrous details of the dream he could wave aside (and perhaps that little performance of love and betrayal really had been staged at the opium den, who knew?), but his reunion with Devitt, however fictional, still bothered him.

 _'Why are you doing this?'_

That was what Devitt had asked him, over and over. He asked whether John was trying to find him out of pride, responsibility, or … what? The question still weighed heavily on John's mind for many reasons, not the least of which was that he could not quite answer it.

"Devitt is in indescribable danger," John said, uncharacteristically vague. "I do not know what causes me to believe this, as circumstances have been strange but not yet beyond rational explanation. However, since the day I met him, I've felt a brooding malignancy about the entire affair. There is no one else that heard the things Devitt confided in me, and no one else that would believe the insinuations. Do you deny that we are Devitt's only hope?"

"I do not deny it," Kaufmann said. Under his breath, he added, "If Devitt, indeed, _has_ any hope."

Kaufmann coughed again, then cleared his throat.

"You still did not answer my question," he said. "Why?"

"I do not quite know," John said. He gazed out at the falling snow reflectively. "I've felt a great sympathy for the man from the first. He is a good man, if a sad and lonely one, totally undeserving of all that has befallen him. I care about him."

"As his psychiatrist?" Kaufmann persisted. "As a friend? A fatherly figure? … A lover?"

John was too exhausted and befuddled to even be offended by the questions. His shoulders slumped and he leaned far back in the train's creaking seat. He watched the snow a moment, then shut his eyes.

"I do not know."

Kaufmann said nothing.

"But, do you know something, Johan?" John's eyes opened and he sat up again. He met his friend's eyes evenly, and the confusion faded from him. "It hardly matters."

"Doesn't it?" Kaufmann asked, surprised. "This undertaking is very serious, Herr Dr. Wakefield. How can your motivations for pursuing it not matter?"

"I know that I must, for Devitt's sake, and that is reason enough for me," John said. "He _is_ my responsibility, as he is my patient. I care for him professionally, and personally as a friend. If any motivations lie beyond those, they are irrelevant."

"I see." Kaufmann nodded in approval. "Then I will help you, Herr Doctor. We may be analysts, but we are also men, and men must do what they must to be true to their honor."

"Thank you for understanding."

"Of course I understand," Kaufmann said. "Am I not doing this for your sake, mein Freund?"

John smiled gratefully, touched. Kaufmann sat back, yawned, coughed slightly, and settled back into the journal he had been reading. John returned to his doze, thankful that he was not tired enough to fall into the sleep that brought dreams.

 _ **Finis**_


End file.
